“Edona, we don’t have much time. I need you to do something very dangerous.”
Her eyes widen and her thin fingers turn cold in my hand. She searches my face for clues, must find some solace there while she bites her lip in anxiety because the next thing she says is, “All is danger now. So OK, I can do.”
Letting loose of Edona’s hand, I move back a little to create some space on the bed. I touch my lips briefly with a forefinger, warning her not to react as I bring out the props I’ve secreted inside various coat pockets and place them on the blanket between us – a disposable lighter, tin foil, a single shoelace, a table-spoon already blackened underneath, a couple of tubes of stage make-up, some cotton balls. Thus far Edona has watched transfixed, like a child at a magic show, as one item after another is added to the weird array on the bed. It’s only when I peel off the bubble-wrap protecting a needle and syringe, doctored to appear used, that she has a quiver of alarm. I rush to pacify her, whispering, “It’s OK, it’s OK,” willing her not to scream.
My scenario setting had envisaged a rapt and submissive Edona listening intently to my plan for her escape, entranced by its brilliance, obedient to the letter of my instructions. In reality explanation proves a much harder currency to exchange than emotion. I stumble through the detail of the plan, trying to hurry but only wasting time by having to repeat and rework my words several times before she has a clear enough understanding of what I need her to do. Worse, we’re touching off nervousness in each other until I seriously doubt that either of us can find the poise we need to carry it off. There are unexpected practical problems too. I’d assumed that, as a woman, she would naturally be able to apply the subtle touches of make-up required for the part she has to play, but I’ve over-estimated her experience with cosmetics and, without the benefit of a mirror, she struggles to apply the stuff properly, so I have to take on the job of make-up artist. Fortunately I had experimented on myself a bit while I was searching for just the right shades and colours. The results on Edona don’t look too bad in the weak light of her room, but whether they’ll pass under harsher inspection I can’t really tell.
I’m still rushing to get everything laid out when a knock comes at the door. My hand goes out instinctively towards it and I screw my eyes tight as if the power of thought could prevent the door opening. I guess I look very much like a man in flinch mode, expecting a bullet in the head, but the handle doesn’t turn. From outside, the voice of Boris. “Time is over. Please to come down,” and he slopes off without disturbing us further. Thank Christ this time for his nauseating customer sensitivity.
“Be right with you!” I call after him, my voice cracking slightly. I’m trying to suppress the rising panic, busying myself with the final arrangements in Edona’s room. She’s already lying mutely in place, following me with her eyes as I set out the things beside her and hide the debris of our preparations under the bed. She’s calmer than I am now, putting all her faith in me it seems, or maybe just composing herself for the drama to come. I have to meet her eyes at last, locking us in to that moment when we choose to do or not to do.
“Are you ready for this?”
She nods her head, says nothing. Her eyes are already closed by the time I’m at the door, and I creep out softly as from a child’s bedroom, releasing the door handle slowly so she doesn’t stir. Whether I’ll be first to go back into that room or someone else, I don’t know yet – the gambit rests on the next few minutes – but however it plays we’re now in a game of convince and control. Starting now.
Boris is waiting at the foot of the stairs, hungry for his money on a slow night. This, I’m telling myself, is one of the clever parts of my plan. He will say something ingratiating, stroke my ego, tot up the bill, add on the number he first thought of, and ask for the cash. And so the first act begins.
“Truly, you are a man of the finest tastes, Mr Oliver,” he says, on cue. “Edona I’ll have for you always. She is the most delicate flower, eh?” And he kisses the tips of his fingers like a stage Italian while a new Plan C flashes through my brain, one I’d put into action instantly if only I’d had the foresight to bring a samurai sword in under my coat.
Boris, still smiling sweetly in his pantomime of appreciation for Edona but not so warmly as to unfreeze his eyes, rolls back his loose sleeve to study his wrist watch. “Well,” he see-saws his right hand, “Perhaps we charge one hundred fifty pounds for your pleasant time this evening but, sir, please to know drinks is on our house tonight.”
I make a show of going through my pockets, both coat and trousers, before I say, “Ah, I think I must have left my wallet upstairs.”
A shadow of annoyance falls across the Slav’s brow, but he remains polite, inviting me with a gesture to return to Edona’s room. He looks to follow me up, which could work out just fine when the time is right, but there’s another piece of the jigsaw I need to fit in first. I pause at the bottom stair, tap my hand on the knob of the banister as if something has just come to me, and turn to face Boris, saying, as lightly as I can, “Oh, you know, I’ve just realised… You’re gonna hate me for this. I’ve forgotten about needing cash. Can’t believe I’ve done it again. Sorry.”
The blueprint in my head has Boris tutting, reaching for his mobile phone, calling Emmanuel to come and make the cashpoint run. He doesn’t do any of those things. The shadow on his face turns to storm. Surprising me with his strength, he bodily lifts me off the step by my coat, pulls me into him, then flings me along the passage. My hand smacks against the banister, jarring my little finger as I try to keep from falling. Christ, that stings.
“Hey, back off. Cool it, will ya?”
Backing off is not on his mind. His rage, too long repressed by false courtesy, has erupted. He takes two paces forward, aims to knee me in the chin as I’m getting to my feet and hits me in the breastbone instead. I snap back and he jumps on me full-length. My knees come up in a reflex action and catch him in the groin as he drops on me. He squirms and I wriggle out from under him. What I could do now is stamp down hard on his nads and run like fuck out the front door, but I can’t for Edona. Everything’s gone pear-shaped.
“Listen, stop. Can we not just talk about this?” I sound like a Sunday School teacher. “I mean, genuine mistake, you know?”
I offer my hand to help him up, show willing, and the bastard grabs my leg, digs his teeth into my calf. So I do stamp on him, or try to – my foot seems to scrape off his pelvic bone and I end up on the floor with Boris. I get half a punch into his face as he’s trying to roll over onto me, but that doesn’t stop him. Seconds later he’s got both my shoulders pinned down with his legs and I’m sniffing his crotch.
“How about I give you a blow job and we’ll call it quits, eh?”
Maybe humour doesn’t translate so well. He swings a back-hander with the force of a cricket bat. I have the excruciating sensation of my head swelling in all directions while being nailed firmly to the floor. My eyes, squeezed tight, seem to be leaking blood. When the trickle reaches the corner of my mouth I taste only salt. The relief that allows me to blink open my eyes lasts just until I focus on the wicked blade held inches above my face. Shit, this guy is serious. He’s going to cut my fucking ears off.
A door opens directly behind my head. I’m torn between not daring to take my eyes from the knife, and needing to know who else I have to worry about, but the newcomer seems to be gunning for Boris. He gets a blast of hard consonants and I get the spray in a tirade of what I suppose to be Russian swear-words. Boris throws a few back, working himself up and waving his blade in the general direction of the new guy, giving me a chance to twist my head enough to discover that it’s the barman, leaning in to have his say from the kitchen doorway. I can’t understand a syllable but it’s not hard to deduce the barman is suggesting that blood spilt on the hall carpet would be bad for business, while Boris is making the not unreasonable point that his partner in crime hasn’t had to suffer the arrogance of this bilking little prick who deser
ves to have his brains skewered.
Fortunately for me the drinks man wins the argument and Boris reluctantly climbs off my chest, still eyeing me with a menacing glare as he tucks away his knife and replaces it with his cell phone. As he calls (I hope) Emmanuel I get back on my feet, my head still reeling. I want to ask the barman if he stocks aspirin among his drugs of choice, but I’ve already sailed too close to the wind with Boris so I go and sit quietly on the chair next to the TV monitor, trying to reassemble my plan while Boris huffily straightens out some of the creases in his suit and goes about his duties.
As well as my thumping headache courtesy of Boris I’m getting serious gyp from the little finger I banged against the banister rail. Possibly broken. Nursing the hand makes me think of Emmanuel in his new leather gloves. I have the feeling that if he chooses to whack me across the head my brain damage might be permanent. I’m really not looking forward to this next bit.
At least I’ve manoeuvred myself into a reasonable location. From here I can watch for Emmanuel and Stefan coming to the front door. Once they arrive I can remind Boris that my wallet is still up in Edona’s room, so I have a valid excuse for going back up there at just the right time. Convince and control. I’m rehearsing the moves in my head when Boris comes out of the reception room with a punter. This guy has a time-served civil servant look about him, and I imagine him handing over a battered briefcase along with his coat at the peg. He also seems very wary, looking around the hall and sideways at me, while Boris is in maximum reassurance mode, almost massaging his shoulders. I reckon this john has heard the commotion earlier and wonders what he’s let himself in for. Boris guides him past my seat as if protecting him from a tethered dangerous dog, and points up the flight of stairs, whispering instructions in his ear.
I watch this bloke’s progress up the stairs. I have a notion, because he seems so unsure of himself compared to most of the punters I have seen here, that Boris will have put him with the girl who is likely to appear least threatening. As I suspected, he doesn’t turn at the top of the first flight, just pauses slightly before he tackles the second short flight, up to where there are only two bedrooms, one of them Edona’s. If he goes into her room I’ve lost the initiative, will just have to go with the flow. I turn to study the CCTV screen; no sign of Emmanuel yet at the front door. Come on.
Even before I turn back to check the staircase I know that something has happened. Next to me I see Boris stiffen, then move forward. Now he’s obscuring my view of the stairs. I stand and peer past his shoulder. Our nervous punter is back at the first landing, holding on to the banister like death. He looks as if he could have a heart attack and plunge headfirst any second. He tries to call to Boris, can’t get his words out at first, then says with a croak, “The girl upstairs, I think she’s… Needs help.”
With that he sinks onto his backside on the top stair, thoroughly shaken. Boris dashes up two steps at a time and I follow him. Boris stops to check out the punter and I try to squeeze past him to get to Edona. He grabs a piece of my coat.
“Nyet!”
“He says she needs help. I’m a doctor.”
“Is not your business. Go down.”
The punter’s eyes swivel from one to the other of us as we struggle on the stairs above him. He plucks Boris timidly by the sleeve. “She needs medical attention. If he’s a doctor…”
Boris, utterly exasperated, finally lets go of my coat and yells through the banister rail, “Lev! Lev! Nxitoj!” while I take my chance and rush up the second flight of stairs. The door to Edona’s room is half-open. I push it further to reveal her lying apparently comatose on the bed. A shoelace is tied around her thin left arm, just above the elbow, with a blue-red bruise showing at the vein below. Next to her on the bed where it may have dropped from the vein is a used syringe, with blood visible in the chamber and the needle stained. In a mess on the bedside table the discarded paraphernalia of the heroin addict. Most shocking of all to the onlooker, Edona’s closed face is deathly pale but for a blue tinge to her lips. Her fingers, too, spread helpless on the bare mattress, show nails faintly discoloured, unhealthy. As I move towards the bed I can just about detect the smell of vinegar. I kneel at the bedside and lean across the motionless girl, trying to catch her shallow breathing. My lips grazing her ear, I whisper softly, “You’re doing fine. Not long now. Stay calm.”
I’m glad Edona has the nous not to respond or move because the very next moment Boris appears at the doorway. I’m encouraged when I see shock register on his ferret face, as that tells me a couple of things instantly – he’s fooled, at least for the moment, by our simulation, and he knows he has a big problem to deal with.
“What is… skag? How she get?”
“She got it from me. I was just trying to make her happy. God, look…” I pick up the plastic bag that I’d placed on the cabinet earlier, and show it to Boris, empty but for a few brown traces. “She must have mainlined the lot. We’ve got to get her to hospital – urgent.”
“Not possible. If you are doctor, treat her right here.”
“Sure. Do you have Nalaxone? A stomach pump? Oxygen?”
“No, of course…”
“That’s what she needs - and quick - or she’ll die.”
He looks at me stony-faced and says very deliberately, “So, let her die.” The heartless shit. My fingers find Edona’s exposed arm, the nearest I dare get to holding her hand.
“Great. So then you’ll have a body to get rid of. Maybe that’s easy in your country but not here, you brainless goon.” Boris moves towards me, but I’m in too deep now. “And what about the guy who found her? How do you know he’ll stay quiet? Eh? What about me? You gonna kill me as well? Cos I’m not walking away.” I can feel Edona’s pulse quicken under my fingers. Boris is close to me now, ready to strike out, and I’m tensing myself. His eyes dart across to Edona. Did he see that little shiver of movement? Is he suspicious, or uncertain what to do? His hand is reaching inside his coat.
“What the fuck is going on here?” The voice, African-rich and deep, is at the bedroom door. Emmanuel.
“Massive heroin overdose,” I say quickly, trying to grab back the initiative. “I’ve got to get her to the hospital right now.”
“We can’t leave her go,” Boris argues. “Questions. Examine. Is like bomb. Everything blows.”
“I can handle it,” I say, exclusively to Emmanuel. “My neck’s on the block as well. Look, I can keep it all hushed up. Just get me to my hospital. We’re losing valuable time.”
Emmanuel takes charge. “I know this doctor, he’s with us,” he says to Boris. “Get out there, clear the way. We want no eyeballing, no johns. Fix it.”
Whether Boris is outranked by Emmanuel in the scheme of things I don’t know, but he’s certainly out-muscled and he has no choice but to do his bidding, pushing ungraciously past him at the bedroom door. I hear him calling for Lev as he makes his way downstairs, trying to reassert his authority around the house. Emmanuel stays in the doorway while I lean over to examine Edona. This close I can see her make-up is starting to run, probably with all the heat generated by people crowding into the tiny bedroom. I take off my coat and wrap it round her, obscuring as much of her face as I can without exciting suspicion, then put my arms under her slight frame to lift her easily from the bed.
“Is she going to make it, doc?” says Emmanuel, as if he were auditioning for a minor role in Casualty. I try my internet-learned smattering of knowledge on him, as I had with Boris.
“She needs a shot of Narcan, the sooner the better, and oxygen. If I can get her breathing controlled I’ll be able to start gastric lavage (I remembered it!), stomach pump to get the toxin flushed out.”
“I’ll carry her for you.”
“No, I have to stay close to monitor her condition. She may need resuscitation at any time. Best for you to keep well clear – it’s vital we give her as much air as possible.”
Emmanuel nods sagely and turns to go downstairs, ducking awa
y from the sloping ceiling, keeping a respectful distance in front of us. Lev is on guard at the first landing. In the hallway Stefan is standing side by side with Boris. There is the atmosphere of a funeral, with these guys waiting to act as pallbearers. I bring Edona closer in to my shoulder as we pass a silently seething Boris on our way to the front door and out.
As soon as we’re installed in the Beemer, we switch into emergency mode. Emmanuel gets Stefan to push down all the window buttons to give Edona plenty of air. Once we’ve hit the dual carriageway and Stefan puts his foot down it’s like riding in a wind tunnel, which adds to the sense of urgency. I can feel Edona’s bare legs getting colder and I try to stroke some circulation into them with my free hand, feeling some pain in my little finger, while she subtly snuggles into my armpit searching for warmth. After a while I notice some of the theatrical make-up is rubbing off onto my shirt, leaving a tell-tale patch. I move my hand from her calf to the back of her head, aiming to hide the stain as Emmanuel turns to speak with me over the wind noise.
“How she doing, doc?”
“Hanging on in. As long as we get there soon.”
“How you want to do this? You have a private entrance? Side door?”
“Er no, they’ll all be locked. Just drop me where you did last time. I’ll blag it, don’t worry. In hospital, the doctor is god.”
Emmanuel laughs, revealing his gold tooth. “Doctor is god, I like it.”
We pass the rest of the short trip in silence except for the noise rushing past the car windows. When we get to the Western General, Stefan nearly takes a wing-mirror off as he negotiates the IN gate without changing down, and he screeches to a halt in the Ambulances Only bay. So much for a discreet entrance. Emmanuel rushes to open the back door and I shuffle across, bending well over Edona in my arms, not so much to avoid hitting my head as to keep us protected from too-close inspection as we get out. Emmanuel starts to follow as I carry Edona to the main doors. I have to risk yelling at him.
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